Black Rose
by TheCountessAndTheEnglishLord
Summary: Her body is perfect, serene and content. But her eyes do not open and she doesn't react to a thing he does.
1. Chapter 1

"Cora?"

Her eyes are soft and malleable, closed against the light. Her chest rises and falls perfectly, yet her exquisitely immaculate posture troubles him. She is too silent, too still. He gently pushes her, and she rocks on her back, a boat on a calm sea. However, he knows not of the storm raging inside her head, the impatience to wake up.

 _Wake up! Open your eyes! Wake up!_

"Cora? Time to wake up," he whispers, brushing his fingers over her cheek. Nothing. Panic rises in him like a greyhound rushes from the slips. "Cora!" He shakes her, a jolting movement that makes her head loll and he stops, worried at her stillness. Turning, he tugs the bell pull several times, making Watson jump out of her skin in the servants hall, the table clattering as she rushes from her seat.

 _Just open your eyes. He's right there. He wants you to wake up!_

But she cannot. Her face is serene and she could be merely dozing contently. But as much as he nudges, cajoles and rocks her, she does not speak, react or open her eyes.

"My lord? What on earth's the matter?"

Watson has arrived, her eyes wide in worry. She looks at Cora and her brow wrinkles. "What's happened?"

"She will not wake," he explains, tears forming in his eyes. The maid feels for His Lordship, a terrified notion rising similarly to Robert's inside her.

"I'm getting the doctor."


	2. Chapter 2

It's as if she is locked behind a door that leads to the only way out and she is beating her fists impatiently against the wood. Her eyelids flicker. Her heartbeat is a steady distraction, diverting her fear. _Wake up! Open your eyes!_ But she cannot. The walls of her bower seem to close in on her and she shakes, trying to free herself from this never ending stream of unconsciousness. This eternal sleep. The blackest sleep the world resounding.


	3. Chapter 3

The pitter-patter of tiny footsteps rouses him from his agitated demeanour, and he glances up to see his eldest daughter pad through the door and to his side. "Why is Mama still sleeping? It's already morning. She can't possibly still be sleepy."

"We do not know what is the matter, Mary."

"Then why are you crying?"

The observational skills of his daughter makes him chuckle yet the tears spill ever faster over his cheeks. "Bec-because I wish I could do something."

"Have you tried singing to her?" She tilts her head on one side, peering inquisitively at her mother, motionless yet calm. Robert is a little taken aback by his eleven year old. She has never spoken to him on full terms of equality, the result of being overly indulged as a baby, but today he feels her bridge that gap.

"No. Well, you see -"

"You can't sing."

"No."

 _"Casey would waltz with a strawberry blondAnd the band played on;He'd glide 'cross the floor with the girl he adoredAnd the band played on." *  
_

Robert has to smile at his daughters slightly off key voice, not dissimilar to his own. He has never noticed how some of his worst traits have rubbed irredeemably off on his oldest daughter, and it alarms him somewhat. But, Cora does not move.

"Lord Grantham? This is Dr Clarkson. He's new."

* * *

* **The Band Played On** , also known (by its refrain) as **Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde** , was a popular song, with lyrics by John. F. Palmer and music by Charles B. Ward (1865–1917), written in 1895.


	4. Chapter 4

Doctor Clarkson has only just arrived at the village of Downton and almost immediately he has had to stop himself from escaping back to London. The last doctor must have been a disappointment, as he has been called on numerous occasions to attend to every cut an graze; achieving little but a headache and the sounds of sobs of relief. He stares incredulously at the comatose woman on the bed, attempting to turn over in his mind the possible cause of her inert state.

"How long has she been like this?" Typical question, usually addressed in an irritated tone.

"For half an hour," Lord Grantham whispers through his tears, all hope lost for him.

"Any change in demeanour? Any shaking, eye opening, speaking?"

"None of those things." The poor Lord is near helpless now.

"Do you mind..." The doctor gently pushes the man to one side and sits on the edge of the bed. The woman lies with her hands under the covers by her sides, a facade of perfection. Her eyelids flicker and Robert gasps, clasping her hand.

"Lord Grantham, how long have you been back from the war?"

"About two months I think."

"Hmm." He peers under her lids, looks in her mouth, nose and ears for obstructions, checks her breathing and heartbeat. Nothing. Then it hits him. Turning, he addresses Ye panic-stricken man.

"Lord Grantham, this is a clear example of the Black Rose condition."**

"I've never heard of it!"

"It's also called sleep paralysis. It can happen as a result of anxiety or migraines and it is quite a phenomenon."

Robert's face registers blank horror, shrouded by confusion. "What - what happens?"

"The person temporarily experiences an inability to move, speak, or react. It is a transitional state between wakefulness and sleep, characterised by complete muscle atonia."

"What?"

"Muscle weakness. We can only wait for Cora to come out of it."

Robert glances in horror between his wife and the doctor. "But - but surely there's something you can do?"

"The reason it is often called the Black Rose condition is because the person looks as beautiful and perfect as any other sleeping person, but inside they are experiencing hallucinations and physical troubles."

"Hallucinations?"

"Yes."

"Is there need for you to stay?"

"I will, to ensure her health once she wakes."

"Please may I stay?" The man is now a boy, lip trembling and eyes brimming with tears.

"Of course, Lord Grantham."

 _Wake up! They can hear you! Say something!_

A sense of dread encompasses her and she tried to lift her head. Nothing. The room is elusive and less tangible. A shadow stands, looming over her, by her bed. She open her mouth and tries to scream but no sound comes out of her mouth. The bed shakes, and the shadow moves, sliding effortlessly onto her chest. She opens her mouth but no breath escapes and she panics, pushing with all her might, screaming inside her head, tearing up at the complex and frightful situation.

 _"I guarantee this is ISP, isolated sleep paralysis. This may be the only time she ever experiences this in her life."_

You cannot hide, Cora Crawley. You cannot run, or breathe, or speak. I control you now.

 _"Cora! Why is she shaking?"_

 _"I.."_

 _"Doctor!"_

You are mine now.

"Robert!"

They stare. Her eyes shoot open and she blinks hurriedly, casting a terrified eye over the ceiling. A tremor that starts in her legs runs over her body and she shakes on the bed, her limbs weak and uncontrollable. Robert takes her hand, and willing himself, lean forward and kisses her on impulse. A sweet, quick kiss.

It works like a charm. Like Aurora herself, she opens her eyes fully, and sits up. "Robert?"

"Oh thank God. Oh thank God." He takes her into his arms and she collapses onto his shoulder, her tears dampening his suit.

"Oh Robert it was awful..." Suddenly she pulls back and glances around wildly, shocking him. "Cora! Cora, what is it?"

"Is it still there?"

"What?"

"The shadow!"

"No need to worry, Your Ladyship. It's gone now." Dr Clarkson smiles down at the beautiful woman, now pressing her face into her husbands hair. She looks up and manages a weak, but sweet smile.

"I owe you my life, Dr..."

"Clarkson, my lady."

"Dr Clarkson. Thank you - so much."

"Do not mention it, milady."

** I made this up, it's not a real phrase.


	5. Chapter 5

For the rest of her life, Cora Crawley never once experiences sleep paralysis again. Its possible presence terrifies her husband, and sets him on edge, but she says she is far too old to worry about anything so trivial. The Dower House grows lighter, and less gloomy, with the absence of Spratt and Denker, Violet's snide comments no longer echoing in their ears. Aging is no longer a worry to them. The only thing that often keeps them awake at night, clutching each other with tear stained faces, is the nearing of the other's death.

He never imagined he would live to see the damp earth being thrown on his wife's casket as it is buried slowly beneath the earth. He never imagined the empty space inside of him, stabbing with pain as every day is a constant reminder of her death.

That last morning when he leant over, stroking her cheek and finding it cool, lives forever in his memory. Cool and pale. Paler than usual. Her eyes closed, serene and beautiful. She hadn't aged a day since he first saw her in the ballroom, slender and virile. Her lips, once plump, now softer and looser, the wither of age; still pink. The gloss of parties long gone, the life she once had, gone. The swirl of her skirts as she twirled on the parquet, dazzling him. Gone.

And so he closes his eyes, hoping that when he opens them, nothing will be there.

Nothing except the picturesque figure of his wife, slender and young once more, waiting for him in the glorious light of heaven, hand outstretched. Waiting.

Darkness descends.

 _Cora._

* * *

 _I wept writing this, as it was extremely poignant for me – that possibility of death when young, then the inevitability of death eventually. Thank you for all your comments and for your support in my writing this._


End file.
